


Adjacent

by twistmyleg



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Advice, Cyrus cannot always be spared from suffering oof, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistmyleg/pseuds/twistmyleg
Summary: After the events in Goldshore, Olberic has a deeper understanding on Cyrus following his quick disappearance.





	Adjacent

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you and shoutout to Hero (@21stCenturyHero) and Colby (@ColbyPuppytheBaker) for having conversations on Tumblr regarding Hysel! Helped to inspire part of this fic! (I would link them but I've been fighting hyperlinks and they won't behave). 
> 
> Without further ado, here's some Cyrus & Olberic because we really need more about these two.

For Cyrus Albright to sequester himself from others in desperate times was the least surprising to Olberic as he paced through the inn’s chamber halls in search of him. 

Of course, it was not like himself to take off when his allies desired reprieve either. Primrose had given him an inquisitive glance when he excused himself shortly after Cyrus’ hasty departure from the sitting room, footsteps clumsy and fingers scattered as he flipped through dozens of pages in his history tomes, unable to choose a particular page. The others were not as observant -- Tressa and H’aanit sat on either side of Ophilia to ease her sibial worries, and Therion silent listened, giving small comforts to a clearly distraught Alfyn after fighting a particularly crude apothecary. In normal circumstance, the scholar would scruntize each situation, yet offer his own condolences in hopes to provide comforts.

Perhaps because he knew Primrose would glare at his statements that he took off upon their return from Goldshore’s church? 

No, that could not be it. For despite the creeping dagger at his throat, Cyrus would continue to interject. He always wished for his opinion to be heard and his sentiments to resonate with his speaker. He could be oblivious, this was true, and certainly had little experience in informal social circumstances, but his heart was pure and meant only benign things. As he passed another set of doors and turned a corner, a memory flashed in Olberic’s mind. A particularly heated Wellspring evening, given the fire and the desert, and a slender form wrapping around his own. Shielding him from the world, and indulging in his concerns with what little he could offer. 

His pacing only slowed when he arrived at their shared room, haggled to a minimal price following Ophilia’s capture. With exercised caution he twisted the doorknob and pushed it forward, unveiling two beds in close proximity to the other but no Cyrus to be found. Although this did not surprise Olberic -- it determined his new destination -- he raised his brow at the additional tomes at Cyrus’ bedside. This included the one he carried off regarding sworn deities throughout Orsterra’s plentiful history, meant to aid Ophilia with the Savior. 

He closed the door silently, turning back to round a different corner toward the inn’s private study. Although it did not thrive with as many tomes as the Royal Library, Cyrus had an penchant to locations with a few dozen books to peruse over for hours at a time. It was here he most often dragged the professor out by his cloak, tome still in hand as they stumbled away from the particular town they stayed in. 

Olberic’s assumptions were not wrong as he arrived, noticing the cloaked scholar moving from shelf to shelf in search of something. What it happened to be was unknown; Cyrus’ fingers grazed each tome’s spine, but not once did he pull one aside and review its contents. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he stepped in slowly and quietly clicked the door shut. Unfortunately, the professor’s hearing was sharp, to which he turned on his heel instantly with an exasperated -- if not forced -- smile. 

“Something the matter, Olberic?” he inquired. “Your expression suggests something has occurred in my absence.” He shook his head, taking a step forward. 

“Nothing immediate.” He clicked his tongue in assent, although it seemed different. There was a lack of sharpness accompanying it. 

“That’s good to hear.” In an oddly dismissive manner, Cyrus turned back to the shelf with renewed determination. Olberic took another step forward, tempted to reach his hand for the scholar’s shoulder if only to halt his incessant pacing. That alone increased his accumulating anxiety.

“If I may, might I assist in your search?” The professor paused for a mere second in contemplation before shaking his head. 

“I’m afraid not, though I appreciate the offer.” His fingers now tapped against each spine in a disorganized rhythm, another hand reaching to brush aside stray stands marring his appearance. 

“...What is it you seek?” It was only then Cyrus stopped, still tapping his fingers. 

“A tome on the Gaborra evergreen, alongside other foreign substances malign for one’s well-being.” 

“Alfyn has a tome if you desire one. He may not be able to give it to you, but I believe Therion knows its location.” In all likelihood, it resided in his satchel, but Alfyn was particular with who rummaged through its contents. Therion, of all their companions, was the only one with access. 

“Ah, that is true…” Yet he continued, leaving the sentence unfinished. This being the third time, Olberic closed the remaining distance and grasped the scholar’s shoulder as gently as he could manage under his newfound rising concerns. 

“Are you unwell, Cyrus? You are acting in a strange manner.” 

“I am alright, Olberic. Perhaps it is best you return to the others? They need greater comfort.”

“Yet it is your behaviors that strike concern within me, not theirs.” Cyrus’ fingers slowed in tapping the spines, resting on a particular tome titled appropriately  _ The Conflicts of Human Morals _ . “Your departure differed from your normal behaviors, Cyrus. Shown further in your silence on our return to the inn, and your avoidance in the present.”

“I merely search for something, Olberic. Nothing more.”

“The tome on the Gaborra evergreen still? Cyrus, what do you really seek?” Cyrus took in a long breath, exhaling after a few moments of silence. 

“It would be best if you returned to them.” Dismissive in every form, and Olberic now had every intention to break through it. His grip tightened on Cyrus’ shoulder, earning him a soft whimper from the professor.

“If you were merely searching, I would figure you to elaborate on your subject to an eager student. It is most unlike you to continually dismiss those reaching to you for knowledge.” 

“It is not knowledge you need to know,” he retorted sharply, to which Olberic flinched in response. Cyrus seemed to realize his tone usage, for he cleared his throat momentarily and sighed deeply. “My apologies. I overstepped my boundaries. The knowledge I seek is dangerous, and is not best heard under your ears.”

“More dangerous than the information we gathered in Quarrycrest? Or Stonegard?” Each city created a visible effect on Cyrus: shoulders hunching at the first, head lowering at the second. “Cyrus, if there is something personal affecting you gravely, do you not think it wise to open up to those wishing to assist you? As Alfyn has done with Therion, Ophilia to Tressa and H’aanit, and Primrose to H’aanit under closed doors? If this is true, Cyrus, then…” His grip lightened. “Enlighten me.” 

Silence dominated the room, with nothing to break it. It was poorly lit with only an oil lamp resting on a coffee table in front of a well-worn yet finely decorated couch. In the shadows the light created, Olberic saw how they painted Cyrus’ complexion in fatigue. Tiny hairs once combed back to match the rest of his dignified appearance still sprouted here and there, peeking behind his ears and sticking out from the band holding his hair back. If his goal was to avoid inquisitive gazes for his appearance alone, Olberic would believe it without question. It was the behaviors behind them that called for attention.

“What is your opinion of the apothecary we fought today? Vanessa Hysel?” 

An odd question, only deserving of an equally odd answer. “Excuse me?” 

“Just answer the question for me, as a willing student would.” If it was Cyrus’ way of expressing his concerns, then so be it. Olberic took a fresh breath before responding.

“If you mean for me to restate how her intentions were foul and her actions wreaked havoc upon this poor town, then that would be the summary of it. The woman is terrible, and hopefully her placement in the gaol will allow her to rethink her position.” 

“Indeed. Now, pray tell me, do you believe she has always held onto those intentions? Has she always kept a desire for leaves in her heart?” A memory flashes of earlier in the day, with the purple-haired apothecary moving between different patients holding an insurmountable amount of leaves each, gestures willing to reach to them but never to those unable to pay. A condescending tone following her venomous words, a glint in her eye different from before.

“Most likely.” 

 

“Good answer. Now, this question is rather difficult to conjure a response to. Take your time in answering it.” Cyrus clicked his tongue, tapping a finger against the same book from before. “We have met this woman and known her for only a few days. Based on what we have gathered and our analysis of her motivations and actions, how many people do you believe could have been spared from her wrath if they were informed of her motivations?” 

“How...many? I don’t understand.” 

“Clearly she had a line of patients before she arrived here, no? After all, residents spoke of her name appearing in faraway lands, and the myriad ingredients she has gathered would infer her line of work hails elsewhere, granted having the leaves to pay for them. Have you considered that those leaves tell a tale of countless suffering from others who could not feed her success?” He took in a sharp breath, and Cyrus’ faint hum told him that he expected that response. 

“If you mean to suggest people died under her intentions simply because they could not afford her wares or accepted her trial concoctions--”

“That is precisely it. So I ask again: how many people could have been saved if they were well-informed of her motivations? If they knew her personality exactly, could their lives have been spared?” 

_ Most difficult indeed to answer.  _ What would a person do with the knowledge of her when she offered something immediate to their pains? A sensible response would be to turn to another apothecary; one who valued all human life,  _ such as Alfyn.  _ And yet if she were their only source, whether made by war or disease, would they have another choice?  _ Both options still lead to demise, if they could not afford her second offer.  _ It was morally disturbing, to say the least. Olberic raised a hand to the back of his neck in astoundment, rubbing a peculiar spot. 

“The ones with open opportunities would avoid her, if not report her. But Cyrus, those lacking the same would likely not be spared. Not all locations house a local apothecary or medicinal system. And not all carry leaves to spend at their leisure.” 

“And if those without opportunities could discover them?” 

“You make a bold assumption they can, Cyrus.” 

“Because I believe it so.” He retracted his finger from the tome, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Olberic, if the citizens here had been warned ahead of time regarding not only Hysel’s devious machinations, but her prior experimentations, would they have turned elsewhere for their loved ones?” 

“My answer would remain--”

“ _ Knowing  _ Alfyn arrived in Goldshore at the same time, just as capable of healing their ailments as her.” 

“Cyrus, what is the argument you convey?” Cyrus’ head leaned toward the window to his right, releasing a strained grunt. He straightened his shoulders to hide it, however they hunched again as he continued. 

“Olberic, my ever-present goal has been to seek knowledge. Not only to learn something extraordinary that I did not know prior, but also to be informed for situations I may encounter. I read about our continent’s history for when I approach different townsfolk for information. I read about the concepts of blood crystals and creation of life and death to better handle situations such as Quarrycrest and Stonegard. But I also seek knowledge to share with others, not only so they may be enlightened, but so they may be warned.” He stepped away from Olberic’s grasp, quietly approaching the window. 

“As we have traveled, I have been given the affirmation that knowledge is not inherently good or evil, nor is it meant to be restricted. It is the wielder’s heart that tells the story. If we can wield information to inform others, then they in turn use the knowledge and are spared from being hurt, or perhaps killed. Hysel’s motivations are clearly known now, yet her former patients were uninformed. And as a result, numerous have suffered. And I’m afraid many in Goldshore alone may have passed from her crimes, despite Alfyn’s best efforts.” 

Olberic swore he detected something sharp sinking into gravelly ground, although the plotted land was farther north near the church. His hand went limp at his side. He hadn’t the faintest clue in how to respond. “Cyrus…”

“It’s not just them who have suffered, frightening as the thought is,” he interrupted tersely, voice sharper and taking on its professor’s inflection. A poor habit when he attempted to contain his emotions, most often excitement. “Not only have people been physically affected, they may forever be altered with emotional and mental scars that no amount of knowledge can heal. The little girl Alfyn treated -- Flynn, was it? -- imagine her mother’s anguish in not knowing the woman’s tincture would have killed her child. Even though she is reassured now her daughter will survive, who’s to say the long-term effects of it all. No amount of encouragement will stave off her fears of it happening again: being caught uninformed.” His voice tapered toward the end, cracking under the weight of his emotions. Olberic finally approached Cyrus again, replacing his hand on his shoulder. 

“There are things we cannot help, Cyrus, no matter how we try.” 

“Oh, I hardly think so.” As caustic as before, yet with no intention to dismiss it. “We could have -- both Alfyn and myself -- been more alert in our inquiries on Hysel. Tonight, you have seen the consequences of us being unaware. Now, I trust Alfyn is a man of strong-will and will eventually move past this phenomena. However, do you not believe the seed of doubt has been planted in his mind that his lack of foresight caused this? That he may realize there are as many Hysels in the world as those like him, and people being uninformed of their misdeeds suffer consequently? He has been mentally damaged from the encounters here. For every patient afterward, there is the sliver of a chance he will be transported back to Hysel, and wonder if was a faster way to get them treatment.”

“I do not believe Alfyn would exaggerate his thoughts--”

“He very well may! We’ve seen all sorts of surprises thus far on our journeys. What’s to stop him from making an unwonted change and catching us all off guard?!” Olberic could not be sure whether to take it as malign toward Alfyn or toward him, but could not ignore the scholar’s now trembling form under his hand. There seemed to be an effort to restoring his proper breathing, but it remained erratic. A hand raised to wipe at something on his face.

Something clicked in Olberic’s mind. “Cyrus...I understand your sentiments toward those people and Alfyn. But, I want to know if  _ you  _ are okay. Have you taken all of this upon yourself to burden?” 

Gently, he placed the other hand on Cyrus’ shoulder, turning him slowly so that he could finally address the professor face-to-face. If Cyrus planned to offer resistance, it did not show as he let the warrior rotate him. Finally Olberic could glance at his face completely, and this was what took him the most by surprise. No matter what endeavor Cyrus pushed through -- whether it painted his face in shadows or sprinkled his cheeks in crimson -- he maintained composure. 

To witness Cyrus Albright shed tears over  _ anything _ ...not just one, but numerous in a river from his puffy eyes down his flushed cheeks…

“...If a scholar cannot inform his students of knowledge vital to understanding human nature, what good have I done for those who have suffered? For our friends, who must live with this inevitable fact for as long as they chase their desires?” He took in a stuttered breath, gaze dropping toward his shoes. “It’s quite selfish of me to admit, but I loathe the idea of failure in all forms. If I can prevent it by seeking knowledge; if I can prevent others from getting hurt; if I can prevent my…” He shook his head, “then I have succeeded. But today, I have failed not once, but twice.” 

He trailed off there, quietly closing his eyes tight and taking a moment to collect himself. All the while Olberic did not release his shoulders, not used to providing comfort. During times of conflict, he often listened rather than spoke. It placed him opposite of Cyrus. But he could not simply stand idle with his companion in a completely distraught state. His mind offered different ideas, although nothing ever brought his excitement down besides a good tome. And perhaps that was what Olberic could offer: not the reading, but the environment for such.

“Why don’t we sit down and have some tea while continuing this discussion? Would that help?” Cyrus nodded slowly and was silent as Olberic guided him to the couch away from the windowsill. “I believe they have many varieties in the kitchen. Perhaps lavender?” Another silent nod. As he situated himself properly, Olberic released his shoulders and stepped away. “I’ll return shortly.” 

The inn’s kitchenette -- not so far from its study -- was petite in providing only a few options of cooking, as Goldshore offered an array of dining establishments to its tourists. To Olberic’s surprise, he was not the only to seek tea upon his entrance. In the similarly candlelit room, Therion leaned against the wall next to a kettle, watching the steam form with dull eyes, which only lit upon a change in the atmosphere. 

“You here for tea too? Making lavender for Alfyn; I can pour you a cup if you want.” Olberic nodded.

“I’ll take two, if it does not inconvenience you.” Therion reached to a cabinet above them with different sized dining wares. He brought down four cups adorned with floral designs as the kettle released a grating noise. He was quick in pouring adequate amounts in each before setting it to the side, handing two to Olberic. “Thank you.” 

“Whatever helps. How’s Cyrus anyhow? Ran off to study something, right?” But Therion’s expression already knew the answer. Olberic sighed. 

“I’m helping him clear some doubts, that’s all.” 

“Figured. Explains his behavior.” He took up the other two cups, wincing slightly at the blazing handles. “Ophilia finally fell asleep; all the girls went to bed some time ago. Now it’s a matter of getting Alfyn to go with them. But he’s a stubborn one.” 

“You will find a way through to him.” He scoffed softly with a small smile, exiting toward the opposite door back to the sitting room. In the distance, Olberic could barely make out a huddled Alfyn against the edge of the couch, eyes half-lidded in fatigue yet wearing the ghost of a smile.

“Prim said the same. Give Cyrus my condolences, let him know we’re here if he wants to talk.” 

“Of course.” 

Cyrus was in the same position when Olberic returned, eyes focused on the shadows the lamp projected onto the table and tear-streaks still evident. It was only interrupted by the cups clinking against wood and the couch’s squeaks as he settled next to Cyrus. The scholar nodded his gratitude and took up a cup, wincing similarly at the heat and blowing on it two or three times before taking a sip. Olberic decided to wait until his cooled properly, although the idea of drinking tea was not his fancy. “Does it taste alright?” 

“Adequately so,” was his quiet response, more composed than before. His tears no longer fell but the effects remained. He exhaled softly. “My apologies for no commentary. Thank you for the tea.” 

“Anything to help, Cyrus. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

“I know.” He took in a breath, and Olberic reached his hand across to his shoulder, hoping it gave him the same support as before. “You asked if I have taken all this burden...to an extent I have. If I am to be candid, Olberic...it has stirred great fear within me. I’m sure you remember Stonegard, yes? What is your impression of the late Headmaster Yvon?” 

“Not altruistic toward sharing knowledge, but had a demanding presence all the same.” 

“Precisely. Now, if I had known the late headmaster’s goals ahead of my arrival, could I have spared Therese the pains she endured to warn me, as well as her kidnapping?” To his surprise, Cyrus held a finger up to halt his response. “I know your answer, but let me ask this, albeit selfish again: could I have been prevented from facing these pains? This constant dread encapsulating my heart, and worry of more situations like that again?” Olberic did not know how to respond, choosing instead to bring himself closer to Cyrus’ side to further listen. Cyrus took another sip before elaborating. 

“We once talked about our fears and aversions; you, Tressa, and I, and I admitted to a grave choral weakness, but there is more. I rarely admit this to anyone, but...I fear the unknown.” 

“The unknown…?” 

“Indeed. I can’t remember when I developed it; perhaps when I decided to follow my parent’s footsteps as a young lad? If I could be informed of those hideous froggens clutching at my fingers, I could certainly avoid the surprise next time, no?” He sighed, trailing a quivering finger around the cup’s rim. “Although scholars thrive on the unknown, I cannot say the same. When I am caught in situations where others or myself must suffer...it leads to the failure I loathe. I try to prevent it however I can. This journey has tested my preparations, and proven fruitful time and again. But in moments like these...like Stonegard, where I failed to prevent my own suffering and others...I cannot help but ponder. And the fear cannot help but rise that it will occur again.” 

Cyrus’ form relaxed in his arm as he took another sip, giving a small hum under his breath at the flavor. His gaze -- although glancing often at the liquid -- averted to his, expecting a response. But how does one respond to man’s primal fears? Olberic closed his eyes for a moment and imagined having the same fear. If he always feared the unknown of Hornburg’s future, would he have put more dedication into protecting King Alfred? Or would he have fled his country, taking up a blacksmith’s life as his father did? He opened his eyes again, giving Cyrus’ shoulder a quick squeeze. 

“I could ask myself the same of my land and king. If I had known Erhardt’s struggles; if I had known of the people’s plight, could I have prevented our loneliness? Could I have prevented my country’s fall?” He shook his head. “I do not know. And I’m afraid it is something I will never understand. Hornburg has fallen with no chance of revival.” He took up the tepid cup of tea in front of him, suddenly overwhelmed with a calmer sensation from the lavender. “In that regard, I can empathize with your pains. Yet part of me has come to believe over this journey that a present focus is most vital to checking that fear. For if we focus too much on the future, the present becomes more obscured until we are blindsided.” 

He took a small sip, hiding an initial grimace but clicking his tongue once or twice to absorb the flavor. Cyrus’ gaze was a mixture between incredulous and exhausted, although the rest of his form seemed to accept the answer for what it was. He set his own cup down, leaning into his arm with a sigh. “The argument you present does have its support...but, if I may inquire one thing?”   


“Of course.” 

“How can you hold it with our present unknown?” Olberic’s brow furrowed momentarily before relaxing. 

“I am not sure. Perhaps it is acceptance that the unknown will always accompany what I do, allowing me to see the world this way. As I said,, there are things we cannot change. We may not be able to convince Hysel to change her ways, or people to avoid her. We may not prevent your former headmaster from hoarding knowledge, hurting his own students. And that is okay. Humanity will always adapt unconsciously to avoid it in the future. And in the present, they will take each day as it comes.” Cyrus exhales a soft hum before his eyes close, figure completely relaxed against his grip. 

“...Thank you, Olberic. I will value your advice moving forward.” 

The library fell silent after, save for what Olberic assumed was Therion taking up watch. Cyrus’ breathing was no longer labored, but rather even. Although his complexion still displayed splotches of red, it no longer bore the shadows of his concerns. It was only when Olberic attempted to move his arm that he realized the scholar had fallen asleep, unmoving and head almost comically positioned on his shoulder. In any other situation, Olberic would be inclined to shy away, unsure if it would be the best form of comfort. However, if it was something else he could offer to Cyrus…

And really, waking the scholar who finally managed to relax was not in his best interest.

He closed his eyes, weariness from the day immediately overtaking him and mind drifting toward tomorrow, where he had the strange inkling Cyrus would pass on what he had learned to the others, providing what little he could in a greater conflict. Even if it could not help him, it could always be passed onto others so they may succeed him.

And he could learn from them. 


End file.
